


A Fate Better than Death

by whichclothes



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-20
Updated: 2011-01-20
Packaged: 2017-10-14 22:15:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/154055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whichclothes/pseuds/whichclothes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the January nekid numbers, with the prompts Lindsey, hot chocolate, in a log cabin, and hurt/comfort. Also for 50kinkyways , with the prompt "stripping."</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Fate Better than Death

  
  
  
  
**Entry tags:**   
|   
[50kinkyways](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/50kinkyways), [a fate better than death](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/a%20fate%20better%20than%20death), [nekid numbers](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/nekid%20numbers), [spike/lindsey](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike%2Flindsey)  
  
---|---  
  
_**A Fate Better than Death (1/1)**_  
 **TItle:**  A Fate Better than Death  
 **Pairing:**  Spike/Lindsey  
 **Rating:**  NC-17  
 **Disclaimer** : I'm not Joss   
 **Summary** : For the January nekid numbers, with the prompts Lindsey, hot chocolate, in a log cabin, and hurt/comfort. Also for [](http://community.livejournal.com/50kinkyways/profile)[**50kinkyways**](http://community.livejournal.com/50kinkyways/) , with the prompt "stripping." Thank you to my lovely beta, [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/) , and to [](http://blondebitz.livejournal.com/profile)[**blondebitz**](http://blondebitz.livejournal.com/)  for the prompts!

 **  
A Fate Better than Death  
**

 

A hundred fifty years of survival and it was a deer that was ending him. Not a Slayer or a stake, not a demon or a goddess or a curse. Not even a scorned lover or barmy relative. Just stupid bloody Bambi, who had thousands of square miles in which to prance about unmolested, but who had unaccountably decided to dart out in front of the only car to pass this way in hours.

Maybe Bambi was suicidal. Spike was not.

Yeah, there had been happier bits of his existence, but experience had taught him that nothing stays the same for very long. After Wolfram & Hart was defeated in that alley, taking all of Spike’s allies with them, he’d gone through a rough patch. But lately he’d been guardedly optimistic—something better would come along eventually, some new opportunity. Someone.

But Bambi hadn’t cared about any of that, and now the deer was likely off gamboling in ruminant heaven, while Spike was trapped at the bottom of a narrow ravine under a ton and a half of Dodge Viper. He was too thoroughly pinned to lift the thing off, and in any case the familiar blank feeling in the lower half of his body told him that his spine had been broken again. The only bit of him that was free was his head and the top of his shoulders, but that would be plenty to incinerate him when the sun’s rays reached the bottom of the canyon. In fact, the sun had risen hours ago and the sky above him was a clear, robin’s egg blue. Only the shadows cast by the steep cliff had kept him from dusting.

His head hurt. Must have bashed the back of it on something. He was cold as well; although there was no snow in the canyon, the temperatures were below freezing. Worst, though, was the maddening itch on his nose—he couldn’t free his hand in order to scratch it. Far overhead, a large bird circled and whirled, perhaps waiting for him to die. It was going to be disappointed when all that was left were ashes.

What was troubling him most now, though, wasn’t the itch or the pain; it wasn’t even his imminent end, or the pointlessness of it. He’d have preferred to go out in a blaze of glory again, a hero, but maybe you only got to do that once. It would be hard to top the time he burned under Sunnydale and saved the world.

No, what was gnawing at him most sharply was dying alone. Nobody to hold his hand and tell him she loved him, even if it was a kind lie. Nobody to wipe the tears from his eyes and tell him he was special. Eventually the crumpled car might be discovered, but whoever found it wouldn’t even notice the little sprinkling of ashes. There was nobody who would even notice that he’d gone.

Spike screamed as loudly as his compressed lungs allowed. Not because he expected anyone to hear, but because he couldn’t just go gently into that good day, could he? If all he had left was his voice he’d bloody well use it.

“Wankers!” he shouted. “Bloody cowards! Can’t face having William the Bloody in the world, so you thought you’d be rid of me.” His voice echoed madly off the sides of the ravine. “That’s right, bloody laugh it up! Reckoned I’d go out begging and crying this time, didn’t you? Well I won’t. Fuck you! Bring it on. Bring it all on. Fuck you!”

The yelling took almost all his remaining strength, but he somehow managed to shift his body just a bit at the end. Not enough to free himself, only enough to loosen a large pyramid of rocks that had landed atop the wrecked car. The rocks tumbled down and when one of them landed on his head, Spike blacked out.

 

***

 

Heaven.

It couldn’t be hell, because the surface beneath him was soft and he was warm. The pain in his head had faded to a thudding ache and the taste of blood was sweet on his tongue.

But wait...blood in heaven? He wouldn’t feed in the afterunlife, would he? The taste wasn’t human—it was cow—but still it was blood, and the truly and entirely dead didn’t need that. And everything from his waist down was still completely numb. Surely final death would mend him, wouldn’t it?

He cracked his eyelids open very cautiously.

The light was dim and flickering, and he recognized it at once as flames. Flames. So was this hell then? No, he’d been there before and it was nothing like this at all. There was no comfort to be found there, not even for a moment.

He scented the air and smelled burning wood and melting wax, dust and wet leather and cheap beer, pine needles and fresh mud and pizza. He opened his eyes a bit more.

The ceiling above him was unfinished planks of wood held together by a few large beams that appeared to be simply logs stripped of their bark and cut in half lengthwise. He turned his head, which hurt. To his right was a narrow space perhaps three feet wide and then a wall made of more logs. To his left was a much larger area with a few worn, comfortable-looking chairs; a small table; a red and blue rug over a plank floor; and, built into the opposite wall, a stone fireplace with a roaring fire. A half dozen thick white candles flickered on the mantel.

Quiet sounds were coming from behind him, homely kitchen sounds like rattling pans and running water, but he couldn’t move enough to see what was there. Besides, he was still so bloody weak and tired and his head was splitting.

He let his heavy lids fall closed again.

 

***

 

The smell of chocolate woke him up again.

It was a rich smell, sweet and a little heady. Not as good as blood perhaps, but still lovely.

He opened his eyes and turned his head to the left. And then he yelped and jerked backwards as much as his useless lump of a body could manage. Fortunately, he didn’t quite manage to fall off the bed.

Lindsey McDonald was sitting at the bedside.

“Hey,” Lindsey said mildly. He was holding an oversized white mug with little wisps of steam rising from it. His hair was long and shaggy, he had three days’ growth of beard, and there were several bloody holes in the center of his shirt.

Spike gawped silently. Perhaps this was hell after all.

“So do vamps recover from spinal cord injuries?” Lindsey asked, then took a sip of his cocoa.

“Am…am I dead?” Spike finally managed.

Lindsey shrugged. “No more than usual.”

“But you…. Lorne said….” Spike’s eyes were glued on those bloody circles on Lindsey’s chest, very dark against the pale fabric.

“Oh, he blew me away all right. That bastard Angel couldn’t even do the dirty deed himself.” His words were angry, but his tone placid. He drank another careful swallow and licked a bit of foam from his lips.

“But….”

“Oh, c’mon. You of all people should know better than to expect folks to stay dead.”

“So…you’re alive?” Spike said, because there were still what looked to be bullet wounds, and there was something not quite right about the man’s scent either.

“Not exactly. I mean, I died when I got shot. But Wolfram & Hart, they owned my ass. Post-mortem contractual clause. Only you guys wiped out the firm before they even had a chance to collect me.”

“Oh,” Spike said, and was nearly overcome with a memory of pouring rain and blood and screams and whirling blades and exploding dust.

“Yep. And I know you didn’t do it for my sake, but still, I guess it kinda cancels out Angel’s being a double-crossing son-of-a-bitch.”

“Angel’s gone,” Spike said.

“I know. And ’cause you’re the only survivor of that battle, you inherit the firm’s remaining assets. There’s a lot of dough stashed away here and there if you want it. You’re now the richest demon on the planet, I bet. And you get a couple of islands, some pretty nice office buildings in Rome, Sao Paolo, Tokyo, Dubai…and one decorporealized lawyer, slightly used.” He tipped his mug in Spike’s direction before drinking some more.

Perhaps the head injury was worse than he’d thought. Spike lifted his arms—they felt weak, but at least he could move them, and reached over to poke a finger at Lindsey’s knee. He felt solid enough, the denim soft and warm. “Don’t feel like a ghost,” he said.

“I can solidify if I want to. You know that. And anyway, I’m not exactly a ghost.”

Spike let his arm drop. He closed his eyes, trying to ground himself a little, trying to force some order into his whirling brain. After a few moments he said, “Yeah, okay, I remember. But what’s going on? Where…?” He waved his hands vaguely about.

“I been sorta…haunting you for a while now. Hey, don’t get flattered. You ain’t all that interesting. I just don’t have any choice, now that I’m yours. But I figured there was no point letting you know I was there—I could just come along for the ride. Only, as it turns out, the ride went off the road and down a cliff.”

Spike opened his eyes to glare accusingly. “The bloody deer. You did that.”

Lindsey widened his eyes innocently and held his free hand out, palm-up. “Wasn’t me, man. Look, that whole _to death do us part_ clause doesn’t apply here. You finally kick the bucket and I get dragged along with you wherever you end up. And I ain’t at all confident that’s gonna be somewhere nice. Are you?”

Spike slowly shook his head. It wasn’t as if he’d been keeping an atonement scorecard.

Lindsey slurped the last of his hot chocolate and set the mug onto the floor beside him. “I’d rather have a backseat ride with a boring vamp who’s too stubborn to wear a seatbelt than get a frontseat vacation in the fiery pits. So I didn’t send that deer in front of you, man. And I’m the one dragged you out of that canyon and brought you here. Tucked you in. I even went to the store and picked up some supplies.”

Spike knew he shouldn’t trust a single word the man said, but he was too beat up to try to work his mind around whatever plot Lindsey was hatching. He sighed. “Is there more cocoa?” he asked.

 

***

 

 At Spike’s request, Lindsey had turned him around on the bed so he could have a better view of what was going on in the cabin. It also served the benefit of Spike not having his back to the man he barely trusted. Lindsey had also helped prop Spike upright, which made him feel slightly less an invalid. He could hold his own cups of blood and cocoa, at least, although of course Lindsey still had to prepare them in the little kitchenette and bring them over to the bed.

“So,” Lindsey said, settling himself on the chair again, “about spinal cord injuries in vamps.”

“Don’t fancy being tethered to a cripple, do you?”

“Well, sooner or later the owners of this place are gonna show up and they’re probably not gonna be pleased to see you, Goldilocks.”

“We haven’t permission to be here?”

“A little B&E is bothering your conscience now? Man, you kinda overdid it in the soul department, huh? Anyway, jury’d never convict you—it’s a classic case of the necessity defense.”

“Ta, Clarence Darrow. But why here?”

“’Cause it was handy, that’s why. Hauling your undead ass out of that ravine wasn’t easy, you know, and then there was the sunshine to deal with. Luckily the trees keep everything pretty shady and this place was just a little ways down the road. Pretty sweet setup, too. No gas for the generator, but we got running water and basic supplies, and it’s cold enough outside to keep your blood fresh, and there’s a general store just a couple of miles away with a butcher’s counter.”

“And you just pop on down to the shop and pay for things with what?”

Lindsey grinned. “Five fingered discount. One of the advantages to being a ghost. But really man—the back?”

“It’ll mend. Did last time, anyhow. Took months, though. Nerves are harder to regenerate, I reckon.”

Lindsey scratched his head. “We ain’t got months. Storm’s starting up outside, so nobody’s gonna be up here for a little while, at least ’til they get the roads cleared. But after that…. What the hell were you doing up here anyway? I didn’t really figure you for the outdoorsy type.”

Spike turned his head away to look at the wall. “Came up to scatter ashes.”

“Yours?”

“No, berk. Charlie-boy once said how when he was a kid he went to summer camp in the mountains. Only time he was out of the city, really. He said it was restful like. Reckoned it might be a good place to put him to rest.” He sighed. “Didn’t manage to collect the remains of any of the others, but at least his I could….”

There was a brief silence, and then Lindsey asked, “Did you do it? Or is he stuffed in an urn or something at the bottom of that ravine?”

“I did it. Was coming home when sodding Bambi made his appearance.”

“Home. You mean the Hyperion?”

“Only home I have, innit?” Spike had moved in after the battle. He hated rattling around the great empty place by himself, but couldn’t quite bring himself to simply abandon it. Besides, he didn’t know where else to go.

“I guess I can find a car to steal after the road’s plowed, and I can drive you back to LA. You got someone who you wanna call to come play nurse?”

“No,” Spike said through gritted teeth. He had nobody to call.

“Fuck. Well, guess I’m Florence Fucking Nightingale then.”

 

***

 

The storm raged on for days, the wind howling outside the cabin like a thousand tormented souls, the snow piling in great drifts so that Lindsey had to struggle to get out the door and fetch Spike’s packets of blood. Luckily he’d stockpiled quite a lot, so Spike wasn’t going hungry, and they had plenty of wood for the fire as well.

They didn’t have much else, though. Lindsey had discovered a few ratty old paperbacks in the cupboard—Tom Clancy, Dan Brown, and Danielle Steele—and a couple of board games. So the two of them passed the time reading rubbish, and when that grew old, Lindsey taught Spike how to play Monopoly.

“Who puts a hotel on bloody Baltic Avenue?” Spike growled, tossing a handful of paper bills in Lindsey’s direction.

Lindsey looked smug. “The guy who’s gonna win the game, that’s who.”

“Stupid bloody game.”

“You wanna play Life instead?”

Spike snorted. “Hardly appropriate for us, is it?”

Lindsey huffed out an aggrieved sigh and leaned back in his chair. “So what _do_ you want to do? Aside from whining and pouting, that is.”

“’M not pouting.”

Lindsey tapped his fingers on the chair arm for a moment, and then smiled slyly. “How about another sponge bath?”

Spike narrowed his eyes and then looked away. Lindsey had bathed him daily, although it wasn’t strictly necessary. Spike had enjoyed the feeling of warm hands on him, and Lindsey’s touches had been surprisingly gentle. It had been ages since anyone had touched Spike and he’d missed it badly. He reckoned the other man was even hungrier for contact than he was—being a ghost did that to a bloke. But from Spike’s waist down, his body was completely numb, his neglected cock limp and useless, and so the baths were more an exercise in frustration than anything else.

Lindsey waited a few moments in silence. Then he stood and cleared the game away, placing the pieces carefully back into the box and then putting the lid on. He set the box on top of the little table that was near the fire and spent some time with his back to Spike, staring into the flames.

When he turned around again, he was unfastening the buttons on his shirt. “Look, I know how it is. It took me fucking months to figure out how to be solid, how to touch stuff. Couldn’t even touch myself. I was watching you, though. The way you move. The way your throat works when you swallow. How you close your eyes and bite at your lip when you jerk off.”

Spike would have blushed if he’d been able. He stopped being shy the night he rose as a vampire. But knowing he’d had an invisible audience all these months as he went about his business, even his most intimate business, that embarrassed him. But oddly, it also filled him with a warm feeling. Someone had noticed him. Paid attention. Yeah, the poor sod hadn’t had much choice in the matter, but after such a long time being mostly disregarded by the universe, it was lovely to be…seen.

Still working at his torn and bloody shirt, Lindsey stepped closer, until his shirt was completely unbuttoned and he was almost but not quite within reach of the bed. “Your turn to watch,” he said, and pulled his shirt off. He made as if to drop it to the floor, but it disappeared as soon as it left his fingers.

He was wearing a faded blue t-shirt underneath. At least it had once been blue. Most of the front of it was now stained almost black with dried blood. He looked down at his own chest. “Getting’ kinda tired of this outfit. I can wear other stuff, but it takes a lot more effort. I guess the…the whatever I am…has sort of an affinity for what I was wearing when I died.”

Spike nodded, remembering how he’d been reconstituted along with his beloved duster and Docs. Christ, what if he’d died wearing Xander Harris’s Hawaiian shirt? Spike shuddered.

Lindsey grasped the bottom hem of his tee and slowly pulled it up, revealing a chest that was muscular and unmarred. “Least I got rid of the holes. They were pretty gross. I’m not gross now, though, am I?”

“No,” Spike said, his voice unexpectedly hoarse.

Lindsey grinned and tugged the shirt over his head and then off completely. It disappeared as well. He stood there, silent, the lights and shadows created by the fire playing off the angles of his skin, making him seem to glow from within.

Spike licked his lips, which had gone very dry.

Lindsey bent his head so that he was peeking at Spike through his fringe. Then he slowly slid one palm over his chest, stopping briefly to tug at peaked nipples, before moving down his flat belly and then past his waistband and to his crotch. He rubbed at the denim there. Spike could see the bulge form as Lindsey’s cock filled. The jeans were old and worn, and Spike imagined that the fabric would feel very soft over the hardness of Lindsey’s body. Spike’s fingers twitched restlessly at his sides.

“You ever ride, Spike?”

“What?” Spike had become slightly hypnotized by the motion of Lindsey’s hand, by the flicker of the fire.

“Horses, man. Did you ride ’em? They were how you got around back in your day, right?”

Spike shook his head. “Carriages.”

“Oh, right. City boy. Well, we had horses. Didn’t have nothin’ else, just a crappy old shack with holes in the roof and a dirt yard full of rusting pieces of cars. But we had horses. Well, the neighbor owned ’em, really, but he let us ride if we did chores for him, and I did. I’d do just about anything so I could climb on one of those broad backs and go for a good run. Used to imagine I could just keep on running. You know, gallop off into the sunset, find my fame and fortune.”

“How’d that work out for you?”

Lindsey chuckled. “Not so good. But I ain’t gonna complain. I might still be dead by now if I’d stayed back home—and probably havin’ a lot less fun at it. Or maybe I’d be one of those guys, you know, three divorces, big old beer belly, drinkin’ his life away in front of football games.”

Spike had to agree—there were fates worse than death. Like scribbling away at crap poetry, still a virgin, coughing your lungs out from the coal smoke and yearning for something you’d never be brave enough to have.

Without raising his head, Lindsey unfastened the button of his jeans. “So we make the best we can of our situation. We find a way to escape the bad shit, like I escaped on those horses when I was a kid. Even if it’s only for a while, that’s somethin’, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you have somethin’ like that when you were a boy, Spike?”

Spike thought of the way the tip of his pen felt as it scratched across paper. How his mother used to scold him about the ink smudges on his clothing and the ones that would never quite wash off his fingers. Of the books that were piled precariously around his bedroom, sometimes toppling over when he was a bit too careless with an elbow. “I did,” he said softly.

Lindsey lifted his face a bit, his eyes bright with some expression Spike couldn’t quite read. Then the corners of his mouth twitched into a small smile and he unzipped his trousers.

Lindsey wore plain white briefs, the outline of his cock plainly visible. He palmed himself for a few more moments and then sat down in the chair. He pulled off his boots and they poofed into nothingness as he tossed them aside. It occurred to Spike then that the man could have simply willed his clothing away, but that wouldn’t have been nearly so diverting.

Lindsey stood up again and slid his jeans down over his hips and thighs. He stepped out of them and stood in front of Spike wearing nothing but his underwear and a pair of white socks. He stroked himself through the cotton, slowly, his breaths growing deeper and noisier.

Spike glanced down at his own blanket-covered torso and laughed bitterly. His dick was standing up, tenting the covers, even though Spike still couldn’t feel a fucking thing south of his belly button. But that left the top half of himself, didn’t it? Tentatively, as if he were afraid of what might happen, Spike bent his left arm and touched his fingertips to his right nipple. He hissed at the contact, which was very slight but still felt almost like an electric jolt. The false heat of it radiated through his chest and down his abdomen, fading as it neared the line of numbness.

“Now, that’s the ticket. Do what you can,” Lindsey said. A damp spot had appeared on his briefs, making the fabric there almost transparent. Spike found himself wondering what Lindsey tasted like. Could a paralyzed vampire give a ghost a blow-job?

As Spike pinched and rolled his nipples, Lindsey spent a few minutes teasing, stretching the elastic waistband down a bit so the head of his cock just barely appeared and then pulling the briefs back up again.

“Fancied a career as a stripper, did you?” Spike asked.

“I _worked_ as a stripper, actually. My first two years at Hastings. I worked this place over on Bush Street. Wasn’t really classy but it paid the bills. I quit when the firm gave me a scholarship.”

Spike licked his lips again as Lindsey rubbed his thumb over the tip of his cock. “I’ll wager you made good money at it.”

“I did okay. Better’n waiting tables anyhow. Learned to do this.” As he spoke the last sentence he grabbed the waistband with both hands and yanked, so that the fabric tore away completely and then fluttered away to nothingness when he released his grip.

His cock jutted up from a neat nest of dark hair and his balls looked full and ripe. He was circumcised and his glans was red and slick-looking. He wiggled his hips a bit from side to side and then slowly turned around, giving Spike a nice view of his muscular arse. Spike wanted very much to touch that arse, maybe give it a friendly slap or two, but he couldn’t quite reach it. He had to content himself with watching as Lindsey shook it, casting glances back over his shoulder at Spike. But when Lindsey bent at the waist and reached behind to spread his cheeks, revealing his round little pucker, Spike groaned out loud.

“I bet you wish you could have that right now, huh? Would you go easy on me, Spike? Would you take the time to stretch me out, to lube me? Maybe fuck me a little with that pointed tongue of yours so you could taste me? Or would you be too impatient? Maybe you’d slam that cock right into me, pound away into the heat, listen to me scream.”

Spike groaned again, more loudly. That spark he’d felt before was still there, stronger now, chasing itself around in his chest. “’D go slow at first,” he panted. “Better that way.”

Lindsey stood straight again and turned around. He flipped his hair out of his eyes and wrapped his right hand around his cock. He began to stroke himself, rocking his hips a little into his own grip. “God, I bet it would feel good to ride you, man. Watch you writhe underneath me while I impaled myself on you. Feel you all the way up in my guts. Or maybe you’d bend me over the edge of the bed—I saw that gleam you got in your eyes over my ass—and you’d take me like that, make me hold on to the edge of the mattress, make me bite my own arm to stop myself from howling.”

As Lindsey spoke, his movements became faster and more urgent, the motion of his body a little jerkier, but he never took his eyes off Spike’s face, and that was what was really doing it for Spike. No matter Lindsey’s real motives and real feelings, he was looking at Spike, thinking about Spike, not someone else. Spike moved his head back and forth against the pillow, needing something and not quite getting it, not quite.

Lindsey’s breathing was harsh and uneven, his face and upper chest flushed deliciously. “You own me now, Spike. I’m yours to do what you want with. What…what…oh fuck!...what do you want me to do?”

“Come,” Spike whispered.

Lindsey moaned, long and loud, and Spike watched as ribbons of white liquid spurted from the other man’s cock, disappearing before they hit the ground.

Something released within Spike as well. It wasn’t an orgasm, at least not like he was used to, but it felt lovely, like letting out a breath you’d held too long, or letting strained muscles relax. Spike stopped moving and remained propped against the pillows, tasting blood in his mouth. He must have bit his own tongue.

Lindsey looked smug. His clothes reappeared on him all at once, bloodstains, bullet holes, and all. He walked the two steps to the bed and, to Spike’s immense surprise, bent down and gently kissed Spike’s forehead.

Then he stood up again and stretched. “So,” he said with a grin. “What’s next, oh master? More Monopoly?” He pointed where one of the books had landed when Spike had thrown it across the room in disgust. “I can read you the part where Ian has the affair.”

Spike snorted and reached over to palm Lindsey’s ass, which felt very nice even with clothing on. “How about a mug of cocoa?”

“You’re high maintenance, man,” Lindsey complained, but he walked over to the kitchenette and began to mess about with pots and pans.

Outside, the storm had finally died out. The only noises were the crackle and pop of the fire and the little domestic sounds Lindsey was making. He was singing something under his breath as he worked. It was pleasant. Bloke had a good voice.

Spike wiggled his shoulders, settling himself a bit more comfortably back against the pillows. Still not a hint of movement down below, but that would come eventually. In the meantime, he was loads better off than he’d been when the church organ landed on him. Lindsey might be morally ambiguous and incorporeal, but he was still a better caregiver than Dru or Angelus.

Circumstances change, Spike thought. One day you’re at the bottom of a ravine and waiting to dust, the next a handsome specter is making hot chocolate for you, and you’ve all the dosh you could possibly want, just waiting for you. One day you’re nothing and the next…the next you begin to believe that perhaps once again you could matter.

Lindsey looked back over his shoulder. “Want some of those mini marshmallows?”

“Sounds brilliant, pet,” Spike replied with a smile.

 

 

 _  
~~~fin~~~  
_

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Than you for reading! Feedback is always appreciated.


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